


I wasn't thinking about you, again.

by argenterie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Birthday Sex, Consensual Infidelity, Drunk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fantasy Fulfillment, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Friendship/Love, Infidelity, Love, Multi, Other, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, The Golden Trio, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, h/h/r, h/r/h, trio, triofic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-18 02:31:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3552710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argenterie/pseuds/argenterie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For her whole life, she thinks: she has bled, and bled, and bled.<br/>And the war is over now.<br/>She holds Ron in her arms, night after night, and she thinks, in her heart.<br/>She thinks,<br/>“I am not thinking about you.”<br/>Harry.</p><p>---<br/>Hermione gets the best birthday present she's ever had.<br/>"You can have both of us, tonight. You can have us both."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There is no lesson in magic.

 

I wasn’t thinking about you, again.

By Argenterie

 

\----

 

Chapter One: There is no lesson in magic.

 

\----

 

There are three trees, she thinks, sometimes.

 

And tonight:

 

Tonight, this is it,

 

This is the first moment.

 

For her whole life, she thinks: she has bled, and bled, and bled. And the war is over now. She holds Ron in her arms, night after night, and she thinks, in her heart.

 

She thinks, “ _I am not thinking about you.”_

 

She lies.

 

“ _I am not thinking about you.”_

 

 

She’s lying,

She knows that.

Her heart, it’s always in her throat.

 

The distracted sense of knowing, that now: Harry has two pillows on his bed.

 

She saw his bed once before, and it was just the one pillow. It was so alone, that single pillow there, on the mussed bed, and her heart broke to see it that way, since she knew that she had two pillows on her bed. Hers, and Ron’s. Two pillows. And to see Harry’s pillow, alone, it felt like she would break from that.

 

 But now, Harry has two pillows. He has two.

 

And she is happy about that, she loves that he is finally happy, that he has found his… That he has found his other.

 

He’s found her.

 

But, oh, how that ache still settles, pushing its borders out, inside that pocket, inside of her.

 

 

Tonight, it’s her birthday.

 

And she has been married now, for nearly 4 years. It is a beautiful marriage, not based on war, not based on desperation. She’s married now.  To Ron.

 

Ron, the one, the only. Her only, her one, her only. He is hers.

 

She saw Ron, right away, years ago. She was eleven. It’s kind of fucked up, she thinks sometimes, that she met him when she was eleven years old, and she felt drawn to him all at once, on that train, she saw him, and somehow, some part of her must have known, must have seen: that this was the way her life would go.

 

She was the smartest witch of her age. And she saw Ron, that day on the train, and she saw his smudged nose, and his awkwardness, and somehow… all of that pulled her in.

 

She saw Harry too, of course. She saw Harry. Who could avoid seeing Harry? He was Harry, he was a boy, a boy just like Ron, like Ron. But… not like Ron. He was Harry, Harry who had this hidden breath of loneliness wedged down deep inside of him. This was the difference of a happy family life, full of brothers and a sister and parents who loved you, and a connectedness to your past, and the knowledge of why you were different – the difference between that, Ron’s life -- that peaceful childhood – and the reality of Harry’s life: As a child, hidden in a closet, alone. Always pushed down, and yet always aching to be seen, aching to be understood. A loneliness that would always show, behind his eyes.

 

Despite that, Hermione felt that Ron and Harry: they were so much alike, sometimes. She felt the pull of both of them. And so, years ago, she wasn’t sure what to do.

 

Before. She wasn’t sure, before. Before.

 

Harry, with a different secret pain. His pillow, always solitary on his bed. His rage, unfocused. His agony, sometimes ignored, sometimes displaced. But oh, Harry. He was Harry, he was her Harry, her best friend, for all of those years.

 

She remembers: she had held Harry in her arms, aching, when he ached. She held eyes with Harry, when he spoke of the pain of Voldemort’s presence inside of him. The way it felt for him, when he realized deep inside, that Voldemort and he, Harry, when he saw that they weren’t that different after all. She had felt him, his hands in her hands, when she wanted to use logic to fight those feelings. Her emotions beating, then, and how she wanted to run to the library to research, so she wouldn’t have to actually feel this, her heart split in two, her brain dashing left and right. Her core, split silently in two, a swinging scythe, and in those moments, she felt almost like she could just look down at her open spine. Her body, cut in half, and if she looked down, she would see her severed body, exposed to the air. Split apart.

 

And sometimes, even now (it’s been years since the war ended), sometimes, she lies awake, at night, feeling her body ache.

 

And all of that pain, she feels it still.

 

But not always.

 

She remembers, too, when she’s lying awake in bed, feeling alone, remembering: She remembers, how Ron was there, too. How… how she saw Ron. How it was, with Ron. Sitting on the stairs. The look in his eyes when he saw Fred’s body, that night. The tightness of his fingers crushing hers, on the stairs of Hogwarts, the world crashing down around them.

 

She had looked in Ron’s eyes, and she looked in Harry’s eyes too, but Harry’s were distant and traumatized, and she knew she’d never be able to push past that, for him. She knew, seeing Harry, that he needed someone who had known that same pain. And so, when she saw him with Ginny… it somehow made sense.

 

A part of her thought, secretly, wrapped in shame: How different were they…? How different, and how similar were she and Ginny, really, in the end?

 

She and Ginny were so much the same. So much alike.

 

Just like Ron and Harry, really. Just like that. So much alike.

 

But there was this pivot place, which made them different. Ginny had felt the pull of Voldemort, directly. She had written into his diary, she had been eleven and felt Tom Riddle’s soul fill her up. She had felt the pull of evil, of Evil Chaos. And because of that, Ginny was... Ginny was better for Harry, better, closer, closer. She was easier to understand, she was more of whatever Harry needed – she was more of that, than Hermione could ever be.

 

And so Hermione mourned. She wept. Alone. And she cried, alone, thinking of what could have happened… if only, if only. If only.

 

And after weeping for Harry, and grieving for what could have been between them – after that, she pulled herself back together, and she sat quietly, just seeing. She said, in her heart: _What will happen? How can I recover from this? What will make me whole?_

 

And then. Ron.

 

 

Oh, Ron. He had always looked at her with sideways eyes, his red hair all in his face, and she felt, somehow – she felt somehow _alive_ , when he looked at her. It wasn’t just that he looked at her, it was… it was that she felt he _saw_ her. He looked, and with his buried and walled-off feelings, he _saw_ her, he could see… his eyes could see right down, right down into the center of her. She felt exposed, she felt explored. Ron seemed to know her, even though she ached, and even though she pulled away – he seemed to just understand her.

 

So she bled, and she ached, and she looked over her shoulder at Harry, behind her, and then she just set all of that aside. She turned away, and her eyes darted back, to see Harry once more, knowing it would be over.

 

And so, she turned aside, and she opened her eyes to Ron, and her arms to Ron, and then she went to him, and she held him closely, and she ran her hands over his body, and through his red hair, and she looked into his eyes. She looked there and saw his love. And for a moment, she forgot Harry. She was completely wrapped up in her connectedness, to Ron, to this man, who had loved her from the first moment they had seen each other. And she recalled how at times Ron had hurt her, in the past. But despite these memories – none of it mattered. What mattered, was that she and Ron were suited together. He filled her up. He made her happy.

 

She knew the truth, though.

 

Even then, in that moment of joy, of utter happiness, she knew.

 

She knew, it wasn’t complete. She realized, with time, that it was … Oh, it was 95% happy, that she felt. But that 95% - it was enough. Mostly.

 

And so she said, inside herself, she recited it, over and over: _That 95% rounds up, it rounds up to all-the-way. It rounds up to 100%. And what is that 5%, that’s left? It’s just 5%. It’s nothing. It’s not important. It’s nothing. That pocket of emptiness. It is just 5%, it is only a tiny hole. It is a pocket._

 

That pocket meant nothing, really. It was so small, overall, in their lives, and the war ended now, and then her marriage with Ron, and at the wedding she saw Harry and Ginny, she watched them kiss, she saw their smiles to each other. She hoped that they would make it. She really hoped. But a horrible, evil, chaotic part of her, that piece: it always, secretly, hoped that it wouldn’t work for them. That it would all go to hell. That someday Harry would see – he’d see that he belonged with her. That he belonged with both of them, with Ron and herself both, really. She dreamt that Harry would wake up one day and see that the perfect world for him, would be her, Hermione; and Ron; and Harry. All three of them together, holding each other.

 

And she knew, that if that could only happen, that the trio would be complete.

 

And sometimes -- when that crushing 5% felt less like a pocket – instead, when it was feeling more like a cavity – she dreamt of it even more. That 5% sometimes felt like a deepening hole that hurt and throbbed, a cavity rotting inside her soul, inside her heart. That 5% became a cavern that Ron could never fill. She could feel it, as if the ground was falling away from beneath her feet. It was a hole that opened, and opened, and opened. And that fucking cavity, it showed her how much she was truly all alone. And she would be looking down into that cave inside herself, and she would fight back her tears, and she would suddenly hear her own voice, just whispering, _“That is only such a small pocket, and you will survive this.  You will survive this.”_

_\--_

And now.

 

She tells herself, thinking of that pocket, she says in her own mind, when she holds Ron in her arms, so happy, so fulfilled, so alive – she says, when her heart aches, somehow empty despite that happiness… In those moments, she says, _“….95% is enough.”_

 

But it’s just repetition.

And the world moves on.

 

\--

 

It’s four years later.

 

She’s older now.

 

\--

 

She knows that Harry and Ginny have been having trouble lately, she’s heard it from Luna, and she’s tried to feel neutral about it. She’s tried not to feel… sick joy, not to feel awful gladness... she’s tried. She hates that part of her would be happy to realize that Harry’s not fulfilled, and she spends too much time denying that this is a truth for her. But. There was a touch of that, in her soul, when she asked Harry to come to her birthday party, and after two years of him being unable to join them for her birthday, after two years of “regrets,” this year, oh, this year, he said: “yes, I will be there,” and her heart filled up, and she felt alive, alive.

 

\--

 

 

Ron holds her hand as the guests arrive at their house. So many friends, and Hermione is just smiling and shaking hands and hugging, and feeling connected.

 

And the front door opens, as she’s talking to Neville and his new fiancée, and she’s gushing over the woman’s new beautiful engagement ring, and she’s seeing over Neville’s shoulder, that the door is opening again, and then.

 

Then.

 

Harry opens the door and steps through, and he’s looking right into her eyes ( _he always did look right into her eyes, not breaking the gaze, not looking away, always just seeing, right down deep into her, right down deep. His eyes: right down deep_ ). And then Harry walks in.

 

Tonight, he’s alone. He didn’t bring anyone. Not Ginny. He’s just by himself, and Hermione smiles at him, and she sees him smile back, quietly, and for some reason, tonight, his smile seems so different. He looks into her eyes. He walks up to her, and hugs her distantly (just as he always has, these past few years. Distant, as usual). But then after the hug, he pulls back, and strangely, he holds her hands for a moment too long, and never drops his gaze, as she welcomes him into her home. She’s saying empty words, “welcome, it’s so nice to see you,” and she feels her mouth moving but isn’t really aware of what she’s saying.

 

And then Harry breaks eye contact with her, and looks past her, and she turns for an instant, to see where his gaze has gone – and it’s connected to Ron. Harry and Ron, just looking at one another, over her shoulder. And it’s a shock, because she sees the intensity there, and somehow, suddenly, all at once, she feels a pulse of excitement, a wave of lust, caressing through her body, her nipples hardening, and her sex suddenly flushed with wetness.

 

All of this, it takes her completely by surprise.

 

But seeing the two of them, the two men, _her_ two men – the way they are looking at each other … it’s something new. Something has changed. And she’s looking over her shoulder, and briefly, she sees Ron nodding, and she turns back again, and Harry’s finishing his own nod. They are agreeing to something, and she’s not allowed to know what that is, yet.

 

And so all at once she is confused and swamped, but she is okay, because it is her birthday party, and she will set this aside for now, and she will celebrate with all of her friends, and she can examine this particular feeling, later… later.

 

\---

 

It’s so late now. Hours have passed. It’s maybe 5 in the morning. The music is still pulsing through the speakers in the living room, but it has changed to something less intense, more private. More sensual. The beat, still slow, throbbing.

 

Hermione is saying goodbye to the guests. She smiles, and she is just a tiny bit drunk, loving this, watching her friends, the guests, watching as they leave the house. She is hugging her friends, thanking them for coming. Her hands running across their backs. She always did love touching the ones she loved. She hugs them, and she feels her eyes meeting theirs. Goodbye. Neville, his new fiancée; Luna, and her new husband; Ron’s brothers and their spouses; Lavender, and Dean, and Seamus, and all the rest of them. The old friends, from before the war, from Hogwarts. She holds their hands, she kisses their cheeks, and they are all leaving through the door.

 

It’s so late.

 

Suddenly, she's waiting, her heart in her throat. Feeling – all at once -- the sink, the pulse of the chestdrop, the heartdrop. The fall of her heart, pulling down inside her body.

 

Ron’s standing at the door, hugging the last guest, telling him farewell. And Hermione is behind him, standing in the foyer, watching, smiling. And then, she feels someone still there, behind her. And she doesn’t look, because she already knows who it is. It is Harry. Oh, Harry, and he walks up, and now he’s there beside her, standing on her right. He’s the only one left, now. And he stands there. Her body trembles just a bit, and she doesn’t look at him, but she knows he’s there. And her fingers reach out to his hand, and her right hand touches his left fingers. And she expected to just run her fingers along his skin there, and then to pull them back again.

 

But, this time.

 

Her fingers brush his. They are standing next to each other, in the foyer. And she’s watching the front door, she’s watching Ron wave out the door to the last departing guest, and then… Then. All at once she feels Harry’s fingers sliding gently across her fingertips. It’s warm, and dry, the touch of his skin. His fingertips slide over hers, and then they are sweeping up over her hand, and then a bit further, and she feels her breath stop, and then his fingers are wrapped around her delicate wrist for an instant, and she’s frozen, feeling numb and alive both at once. And she feels it, her skin tingling, as his fingers touch hers, the slow slide of his four fingers and his thumb tip, each one gently against her skin, so soft, it’s as if it is maybe only in her mind… And in a brief panic, she glances down to check, and she sees. And oh, it’s true. His fingers are on her.

 

He’s touching her.

 

She looks, as he settles each one of his fingertips against her same fingertips. And the delicacy of this connectedness, it’s like a small part of her is waking, it is coming to life. How the small points of contact between each of her fingertips and each of his fingertips – these are like a memory of intimacy that has never happened, between them. It is something, though.

 

It is like electricity.

 

And she is touching him, and she remembers sitting beside him in the empty classroom at Hogwarts, and she remembers the paper birds she had brought to life when she was so sad, and how Harry held her shoulders in his arms, and the heat, the touch of his hands on her back, as she wept, and as she brought those paper birds to anger, and then sent them darting at Ron and Lavender, that night, that awful night, when she felt so alone, and yet Harry was there for her, he held her close, and he was her friend, that night.

 

And the delicacy of this connectedness, and how the small point of contact between her fingertip and his, right now – all it does, is bring that memory right to the front of everything, and Hermione is about to cry suddenly, and Harry’s fingertips are still against hers, and his left arm is brushing warmly against hers, the pressure of his shoulder is there, and she leans in, pressing her head against his shoulder, feeling his shoulder against her ear. Feeling the warmth of him through his sweater, his hand still brushing hers, and his skin touching hers, and the heat radiating out from his body, somehow ill-timed, inconvenient. And she leans in.

 

So inconvenient!

 

His hot arm, against her face, and he looks down at her, suddenly, and he whispers something. She hears it, and looks up at him (he seems so tall, sometimes), and he says it again, “my shoulders used to be so bony.”

 

And she laughs a little, and whispers back, though she looks away, and wonders if he even hears her, she says, softly, “Well, they aren’t bony anymore.”

 

She’s feeling his skin, the feverish flesh, though covered with his clothes, his sweater. And his heat comes through, despite that, it soaks into her, bleeding past her fleece sweatshirt and into the skin of her arm, and she can feel it, his heat, she wants more of it, she wants more. And oh, how that makes her hate herself, somehow. She hates herself.

 

She feels the ache for someone else, she feels herself pound with the urge to be with someone new.

 

And now she’s still standing, holding Harry’s fingertips with her own, and the light is dim in the living room. She’s watching Ron wave out the window at the last departing guest, and she’s feeling alive, because it’s her birthday, and she feels so sad and so happy and so alive and so alone.

 

It’s the way she feels, honestly, most of the time.

 

She remembers, and aches, and she wants to be fulfilled, but that’s not ever really possible, for anyone, and so she cements that feeling down, walls it off, and tells herself she is glad to be alive, because the war is over and she is in love with Ron and that is all she ever wanted, that is the 100%, and it doesn’t _fucking matter_ that it’s not 100%, it’s fucking stupid, it’s irrelevant, and no matter that it turned out to only be 95%, because, because, oh, because.

 

_What is joy, what is being alive? 95% should be enough, it rounds up, it rounds up to 100%, it’s the only thing that rounds up. And be satisfied, be okay, be okay. Be okay._

 

This is happening, forever, it seems, to Hermione.

 

Ron is still waving out the window to the last guest. He turns back, sees Harry and Hermione, as they are facing him, standing there, she, and Harry, together.

 

She feels ashamed, all at once. And she pulls back from Harry's hand, so embarrassed to have been seen, holding him, to have been caught, holding his fingers with her own.

 

The music stops, suddenly.

 

And then it starts again, whispering into life, a soft, gentle song, a song that just pushes itself into the room, but quietly. A soft beat, a song that makes the lights turn down.

 

Hermione stands next to Harry. She is just a bit drunk, but not too drunk. And she watches Ron, and she is listening, the music beating, softly, but thoroughly, and she is abruptly, completely, lost in this moment.

 

She sees, Ron, as he smiles at her. And he speaks.

 

Ron says, his face open and joyful, he says: "I got you something for your birthday."

 

She is confused. She tilts her head.

 

Ron smiles again, and then he walks toward the two of them, and --

 

Hermione, she is watching.

 

Ron takes her left hand in his.

 

There is a beautiful pause. An ache.

 

And Ron looks at her, smiling, and he looks down at his other hand, his right hand. So she looks too, and she is watching, and Ron moves closer to her, and then closer to Harry, and Harry moves closer too, and oh fuck, she is watching.

 

She is watching, as Ron, her love, her eternity – as he takes Harry's hand in his.

 

Harry, who is Hermione’s ache, the person maybe she would have loved, if not for Ron. And she thinks, to herself: _what is it to be alive, and so much loved_.

 

Harry reaches out again, and takes her hand in his.

 

She looks down and around and her head is spinning. She sees their hands, all connected.

 

This is the trio. She is filled with the emotion, it is a wave, a tsunami of connectedness. It is the thing that nobody can deny.

 

It is the way they have always belonged.

 

The three of them.

 

Ron lets go of them both, then, and steps away for a moment. And Harry also steps back, but they are all still standing in a triangle, just a bit moved outward.

 

Hermione’s heart is racing.

 

She is rushed again with memory, of the three of them dancing in the tent, during the war. And how they always felt the threat of death. The three of them, somehow eluding death. She remembers the sound of _Avada Kedavra_ , as it slid through the air toward them, the green light and the sound of the sky bursting into shards, and how the spell split the air into acrid smelling fire, hearing the words, over and over, and then realizing how she’d heard the sound of that spell over and over, but then how that green blast just sliced past them, always, that awful curse, pushing out and killing others, and yet not killing her, not killing her trio, not hurting them, always sparing them; but it was killing those they loved.

 

But it somehow, god knows why, that spell hurt as it thrashed through the sky, and yet, it spared the three of them.

 

She remembers, suddenly, dancing in the dark winter with Harry. And she remembers that, and feels it as her heart suddenly fills with lust for him. That night. Him, smiling at her, trying to make her feel less hollow. They were dancing, her and Harry, and feeling the end of it all, but loving one another anyway, regardless. And that night, she was missing Ron, and crying, and feeling so hopeless, and thinking maybe to kill herself, and she was sobbing alone in the cold. And she remembers, the crash of it: Harry holding her, that night. And then leaving. And she was so alone, she was thinking, _“I can do it now, I can end my life now, and it will not hurt anyone. I can do it, I can do it now.”_

 

And then – all at once, there was Ron, soaking wet, holding the Sword, running toward her, and then she was there too, opening her arms to him.

 

She remembers all of this, tonight, in an instant, a flicker of the past, cricking into her joints, into her brain, the thrash of muscles, unexpectedly feeling the urge to move, the feeling of aloneness, the yearning for togetherness, and oh, god, oh, fucking god, that emptiness, that she remembers, during the war, the yearning for something more.

 

Hermione stands, listening, and the walls of her home seem to flex and throb. She feels like she is flying, again transformed somehow, again flooded with a memory, and she remembers, that night, the last night before the war really started, and how she was flying into the dark, but she was disguised, with Polyjuice potion, and she was… she was actually Harry, she was, she was Harry, that night. She is all at once rushed with it, a disastrous memory collapsing into her mind, and she feels how it was, flying that night and her hair everywhere and the feel of those silly glasses of Harry's, and her skin pricking into goosebumps, in the night, cold and white, and the darkness. She remembers this, and she remembers being Harry, being him, and then suddenly not being him, and how it hurt to change back, and then how it felt to be running up to the Harry that became Ron, and hugging that Harry, as he became Ron.

 

Now. Ron moves a bit closer to her. The lights have dimmed a bit in the last moment, and she thinks probably Harry has whispered a spell to do this. Her heart is pounding, and suddenly she can't really catch her breath properly. She imagines that both of the men can hear it, her heart beating, that they can see her anxiety, her exhilaration.

 

Ron stands now on her left. And Harry, standing on her right. And as she's watching, looking back and forth between the two of theirs, she watches, and Harry glances down and seems strangely embarrassed for an instant.

 

Then Harry’s lips move again, moving into a small smile, and he reaches out his right hand and grasps Ron's left hand in his own.

 

As this happens, Harry moves a bit toward her, and then his left hand grasps around Hermione's wrist, again, sliding down, and then he is resting his fingertips against her fingertips, once again.

 

 

She is standing, holding Harry's hand. His fingers, still touching hers, and the music, suddenly she is hearing it again, the soft beat. Ron is standing in front of her, and he lets go of her hand for just an instant and he pulls his wand out of his back pocket. He is smiling as he waves the wand at the stereo. The song stops. The beat, pausing. And, she's standing. Listening, she feels so confused, her heart, and her soul, both pulsing. The ache.

 

A new song starts to play. It's somehow… familiar.

 

_People write songs, about girls like you._

 

She's watching, seeing all of this, watching her men touching each other, awkwardly somehow, and beautiful. And she is now holding her breath, desperately trying to see everything at once, to feel everything at once. It is all going by so fast, and she wants to slow it down, she wants to hold on to all of this, cement it down deep inside herself, to forever remember this moment. Ron's eyes come back to hers, now, and he moves his hand and really takes hers, and so now, oh, now, the three of them are standing in a triangle, in the dark, each holding one another's hands, and the pulse of excitement that washes outward from all of them is nearly palpable. The room feels ... it feels _-hungry-._

 

She can't stand it. She says, to the room, not looking at either of them -- "What is happening? What… what is happening?"

 

Harry is standing there, holding both of their hands, and he speaks, softly, looking between the two of them.

 

“This is for you.”

 

She gasps, and can’t look anywhere.

 

Somehow, as the three of them hold each other’s hands, this happens:

 

The words are soft spoken and she can barely remember them, later.

 

She finds out:

 

Harry knows what he's doing. She asks, and he answers shyly, that he'd done this before, with Draco (of all people) and Draco's girlfriend Astoria (who Draco had later married). Harry is blushing, and Ron seems momentarily taken aback, and Hermione feels stunned. The conversation is soft, whispered, but she feels like it’s not really happening, that it’s all in her own mind. Hermione asks – “ _when you were with them, how was it_?”

 

And Harry answers, so quiet in the dark room, _“It was sexy, it was hot.  You know.”_

 

And he stops, and looks around, and then continues:

 

_“But I kept only imagining: that it was you two, instead of them. I kept wishing, that I was with… that I was with the two of you.”_

 

Harry keeps speaking, and Hermione can barely move, her body is aching to hear more.

 

_“I know you two are beautiful together, and I would never change that. Ron, you are my best friend. Hermione, you are my best friend. And I love you both, and if you would let me… I would be your third. I would be your cornerstone. I would be there.”_

 

Ron smiles at this, but at the same time he is shaking his head, and Hermione sees, and so does Harry, and then, after a pause, Harry nods. He continues: “ _I know, Ron, you would never have been with a man. But it is her birthday, and so…_ ”

 

And Hermione whispers, staring at him, “ _and so…”_

 

Ron is nodding, and he says, quietly, not looking at either of them, he says, " _I love both of you. I love you both. I can't help that. I know if I were more… flexible, we could all three…_ ” His voice trails off, and he looks back and forth between Hermione and Harry, and she aches inside, feeling what he will say, that it will both fill her up, and also, break her heart.

 

Ron continues: “ _If I were different, I know it, I know that we could all three… the three of us… we could… be something_.” He swallows. “ _But... I don’t know. It’s different, for me._ ” He stops again, and then he looks right at Harry, and he says, “ _And I love you, Harry, but this has to be it, it has to be about her. It is for her, that I will do this_.”

 

His pause is an eternity, and Hermione feels frozen to the floor, watching him, and then looking at Harry, and then back to Ron’s face, and then she hears Ron, as he whispers, _“...Is that okay_?"

 

Hermione feels her heart as it seems to abruptly crumple inward on itself.

 

It doesn’t hurt, really. It actually feels like joy.

 

But it is also… it is also like dying, a little bit.

 

She keeps looking at them, as it is happening. She looks at Ron, his face closed and his expression soft, but Ron is still only looking at Harry. So she turns and looks at Harry, and she sees Harry nod, and his face seems kind of sad, and swiftly Hermione is aware of her own sadness. But, despite all of this, the strangeness of it all, the late night, the 5 am, and her men, still standing holding her hands in theirs (but also, the two of them are holding each other’s hands), she knows what is real, what is true. She knows that she loves Ron more than she ever loved Harry.

 

And she sees, now, that Harry knows that, too.

 

Her mind races. She thinks: So, Harry, and Hermione, and Ron; the three of them… they will take this night, they will take it for the _trio_ , take it for all of them together. And then, it will be done, maybe, done.

 

It will be done. Hermione is calm, believing, pondering, and she thinks: the three of them can then hold that moment, that memory. And she can keep it forever, inside herself, from now on.

 

A long pause happens.

 

The three of them stand in a triangle.

 

Hermione thinks:

 

_Maybe our heartbeats are aligning. Maybe this is what fate feels like._

 

The song is still playing. She's listening, hearing it for the first time. There's a pulse to it. It's like a tiny piece of her heart has started beating, through the speakers.

 

Hermione looks between them. She is still standing, with Ron on her left, holding her hand, his fingers intertwined with her own (and even if she tried to change that orientation, it would feel wrong, somehow -- their fingers belong this way, deeply enmeshed, and her thumb has to be underneath his, which it is, because that's the way it belongs). And she looks to her right, and there's Harry, standing beside her also, but his hand isn't really holding hers -- it's just his fingertips, touching her own fingertips, and that five-point connection between her and Harry, it is like a fire that races up her arm and into her core.

 

She feels that dark heat, and she is flushed, listening to the music, it is talking about a Hurricane, and she feels, oh, she feels, she feels like she is standing in a tornado of wind and watching her emotions pound past her, the crash of her life, and it is all just whirring past her and she is standing there, pretending that the wind isn't even blowing.

 

She stops attending to her inner world, and looks up, and looks between the two of her men, and she can feel her stomach drop, beautifully, perfectly, as she realizes.

 

_She will have both of them, tonight._

 

She is suddenly surging with arousal. She feels herself pounding, beating, pulsing, and she is abruptly aware that she is wet, she can feel her sex as it throbs and aches and wants to be filled up.

 

The three of them stand for just an instant longer, all holding one another’s hands, the trio: as Hermione has always felt that they belonged.

 

Then, the rush of action. Harry pulls Hermione closer to him, wrapping his arm around her, letting go of Ron, and she's facing Harry now, feeling Ron wrap his arms around her waist from behind as she is pulled closer to Harry, her body pressing against his, for the first time. She can feel herself almost sobbing with desire. Harry pulls her closer, even closer, and her breasts are pressing against his chest. She looks up at him, then rests her head against him, her head turned to the left, and she listens, and she hears his heartbeat against her face, she can feel the pounding. She can barely breathe. She whispers, aloud:

 

“ _I can feel your heartbeat, through my skin…”_

 

She can feel him.

 

She feels Ron, too, against her back, and she just stands for a moment, feeling them both. Her body is alive. She slowly wraps her arms around Harry's middle, and holds him close, and feels his heart beating, his heat, she feels it as if it were inside her. Her body aches for him, aches for him and Ron both, really, and she can barely breathe, wanting them both.

 

Hermione pulls back for an instant, and then she is sliding her hands around Harry’s torso, and she touches Harry on his chest, and runs her hands over him, looking up into his eyes, and her hands are trailing around, touching his chest and shoulders and then finally his neck, and she leans into him, her hands now running through his hair, then sliding again across the back of his neck, and oh god, now, her fingertips gliding up his neck and touching his cheeks, touching his face.

 

She leans in, and looks at him in his eyes, and she feels Ron's body hard against her from behind, as she meets Harry's gaze. Harry’s eyes are intense and completely unknowable, somehow. Hermione looks into his eyes, and she feels so frightened, strangely. But she can’t stop, so she is hesitant, and low, and cautious, as she slowly touches her lips to Harry's right cheek.

 

She feels his skin under her lips, and she is flooded, completely swept up, utterly destroyed -- by her own lust.

 

As she pulls back from him, she still holds his face in her hands, and she sees his expression, as he loses control, and she can see the passion in his eyes for the instant before she closes her own eyes, and then she can feel it when he wraps his arms around her tightly and pulls her close and then he is kissing her, kissing her hard, his hands are now firmly crushing into her hair, his body now tightly held against hers, solidly, and as they kiss, she can hear Ron behind her, whispering into her ear, his hands running down her sides, and maybe his hands are actually stretched past her, and are touching Harry's sides (and the thought of that, the image of Ron’s hands on Harry, that thought makes her body pound with arousal), and Ron's got his mouth pressed to her ear, now, as she kisses Harry, and she can hear Ron saying, softly, " _You can have us both, tonight. You can have us both_."

 

Ron’s kissing her neck, now, and both of their hands are all over her, and she feels someone’s hands slide up under her shirt onto her bare skin, and then someone else’s hands sliding downward, pushing her pants down a bit, cupping her hips. She is kissing, gasping. She realizes that she doesn’t know whose hands are doing what, and that fact gnaws into her and makes her body spasm against both of them with an agony of lust. She reaches back with her hands and pulls Ron’s body closer to hers, solidly, and she feels him smoothing her hair to the side, licking her neck, as she kisses Harry, her tongue sliding along his, feeling his lips and his breath and knowing, knowing, that she is the reason that he is panting into her mouth. She is feeling, so alive, alive.

 

Hermione pulls back, throwing her head back, gasping, and now she can tell whose hands are where. Ron’s sliding his hands into her pants, grasping her hipbones, then his fingers are pushing past her panties and he’s holding her sex. He always knew how to do that. She leans back and kisses his neck, and hears his breathing, and then she feels Harry’s hands also on her body, pushing her shirt up, firmly, fast, and his hands are on her breasts, then she feels him pinch hard, both of her nipples at once, and she actually cries out, her head thrown back, calling, softly but loud, “ _oh, god…”_

 

 

Their hands are all over her. Aching, aching. She can feel, now, that both of them are hard against her. Ron’s cock, so familiar, pressed against her back, as his fingers slide across her smooth sex; and now, she feels Harry, the newness of him, his hardness pushing into her stomach, through his pants. Harry pulls away for a moment and then buries his hands in her hair, staring into her eyes, then his gaze rakes up and down her body, and she knows that he is seeing Ron's hands down her pants. She is alive, breathing, gasping, her head thrown back again, and Harry’s voice cracks as he says, “ _Hermione,_ ” and then he nuzzles into her neck, kissing her throat, licking her skin there, and his tongue sliding is making her crazy. Ron’s hands down her panties have finally found her slit, opening her, and his finger slides down, and now circles her clit, wetly, and she is flooded, overwhelmed with pleasure. She can’t breathe, it’s like someone is smothering her, Ron’s fingers darting on her clit and Harry’s lips on her neck and oh god, she is going to come, she is going to come, she can’t stand anymore and she leans into Ron and he is holding her up, and she hears as he says aloud, “she’s close,” to Harry, and she pulses, oh, god, a throb of desperation, somehow her mind still attending, as she feels Ron’s hand against her, but then she feels Harry’s hand, overtop of Ron’s hand, and she hears Harry moaning into her neck, and she is unbuckling Harry’s belt and whispering both of their names, “ _Harry, Ron, Harry.”_

 

She can feel Harry’s hand over Ron’s, as he’s flicking across her clit, and then she feels it as Ron pulls his hand out of her panties and Harry slides his fingers down in their place, grazing her shaved sex, first cupping the whole sex in his hand, and then she is begging, crying into his neck, “ _please please touch me, touch me,”_ and Harry takes his other hand and lifts her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes, Ron’s hands now on her breasts, and his breath hard on her neck, and she looks at Harry, and he flicks his fingers down and around and over and over, and she is rushed with wetness, her body throbbing, her heart crashing out of her chest, and she is looking into Harry’s eyes as she comes, as her body twists and her knees buckle and she is falling, dying, maybe, dying, but so alive, so alive.

 

\----

 

 

 

 


	2. Feel your body closing, I can rip it open.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio. They are letting it happen.

I wasn't thinking about you, again.

 

\----

Chapter Two: Feel your body closing, I can rip it open.

 

\----

 

Hermione loses herself, in this moment. Her body crumpling, giving way. Disintegrating, for just one second. It is her peace with the chaos, as everything flies out of control.

 

Chaos, tonight, and she … sees suddenly, how much she loves it.

 

It is the sense that the world is just exploding around her, blowing up around all of the people that she loves, and the earth is just erupting into a fire that washes outward in a torrent, the mushroom cloud in the distance, the bright blinding light of destruction, and it is coming toward all of them, she sees it, her body now on fire, her eyes burning, and she watches as the force of it all just pushes through the world, pushes full strength past her entire history with these two men, and she is right now fallen to her knees, barely thinking, breathing heavily, the orgasm washing past her, the most intense and powerful orgasm she has ever had… And the two men ( _HER TWO MEN_ ) both kneel beside her, both looking at her, both touching her skin, as she waits for her body to quiet itself.

 

The chaos of the moment has disrupted her peace, right now. At this hour, the 5 am, of her birthday, tonight: she feels intensely powerful. But then, she gasps for air, and still feels her body trembling with the intensity of her orgasm, and she sees now: this is a pattern, somehow. It is a pattern: although she is always powerful at first, it all slips through her fingers after some time, and now she has  _NO PURCHASE_ , and the tangles don't stick. Her existence in this moment – it feels insane. It feels like a disaster, a bit. It crazily reminds her of the way her hair feels after she has been fucked for hours on the bed, that enormous raw tangle at the back of her head, and the way she sees it in the mirror after sex, the pushed up mess of her own hair, the craziness of brown hair just muddled into matted ugliness. Tonight suddenly: it feels like a tangle. Tonight is now the mess of wadded hair, and she knows this, because of how her fingers can't take hold.  
  


Ron is kneeling behind her, as she bends over, on her knees, and she then places her forehead on the wood of the living room floor. She feels reassured by the cold of that hardness against her face. She is still barely breathing, still feeling her core rocking with the force of her emotions. She presses her forehead into the cold floor and she feels Harry’s hands running through her hair, and she feels Ron’s fingers on her waist, and she has her eyes closed, but she knows, suddenly, that they are looking at each other, her men, looking at one another over her bent shoulders. She can feel them communicating silently over her. Her mind is flitting like a scared bird, and her heart is throbbing.

 

Now: she takes one deep breath, and lets it out. And then another. And after several moments like this, she is calm again. She is serene now, back to herself, back to Hermione.

 

She takes her head off of the floor and sits up, crossing her legs, and she just leans back into Ron’s arms, as he wraps his arms around her middle, and she looks up at Harry, still kneeling in front of her, and she sees his confusion and his uncertainty. So, to smooth this chaos: she does two things. With her left hand she reaches back to Ron and pulls his body closer to her, looking briefly over her shoulder at him and meeting his eyes, reassuring him. Smiling at him, seeing the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile too. And with her right hand, she reaches out to Harry and touches his lips. Just gently, just with one thumb. She looks at him, and she slides her thumb along his lower lip, and bites her own lips as she looks into his eyes, and she sees him relax again, and this completes the moment, and then the three of them are back all together again now, it is done: she has completed the trio.

 

Another rush of action: Ron stands and pulls her up. Harry stands too. The three of them move into the main part of the living room, where the couch is, and the music is still playing, softly, achingly, the pulse of it crushing the three of them into a certain rhythm. Hermione feels like it is all happening in slow motion.

 

And now she is laying back on the couch, the leather cool under her back, as Ron kneels on the floor beside the couch and kisses her, deeply, rhythmically, his tongue sliding past hers, in the way they have learned to kiss each other, the way she loves it, and while Ron kisses her, she feels Harry climb on the couch too, and he is now kneeling between her open thighs. He is still wearing pants, both of them are actually, but the intimacy of his body between her legs, it is maybe going to kill her, she will die, maybe. She can remember how much she’s wanted him there, between her open thighs, how much she wanted him there, and how she always wanted him there alongside Ron.

 

Ron’s tongue is in her mouth again, his hands on her face and on her breasts, and she sits up a bit and tears her shirt over her head, then unhooks her own bra and removes it too, and then she lays back down on her back on the couch, and Ron kisses her neck and her mouth and his hands are both on her as she is just overwhelmed with the sensations.

 

She feels Harry’s fingers against her, now, the heat of it all, and now he’s firmly touching her thighs and his thumb is rubbing across her clit, but now it is only through her pants, with the layer of cloth between his fingertips and her own flesh. This is all despite how, earlier, he had his fingers directly against her. She knows: he is cautious now, and she feels the tangle of her thoughts, she feels his perhaps fear, his perhaps panic: his probable fear of the untamable disarray of this night, as if the whole thing is now a bad idea, it is a mess. And this idea frightens her, so she opens her eyes, pulls away from Ron for a moment, and looks up at Harry, who is still kneeling between her legs, and she speaks.

 

“ _Harry. It is okay. It is okay. Everything is okay_.”

 

And action again:

 

Harry’s eyes get hooded as his pupils dilate, and she rocks her head back and kisses Ron, as she feels Harry hook his fingers into the waistband of her pants and slide them down, slow, and she laughs into Ron’s mouth as her pants slide off of her, she is giggling, joyous, thrilled, and Harry laughs too, and then Ron is laughing, and they are all touching and laughing and filled with the press of tonight’s ecstasy, tonight’s thrilling climax to all of their years of loving one another, of being all together in the face of death and mourning and fear, the three of them, the trio, they are laughing, feeling the culmination of all of the feelings of so many years of being… of being: this. Being: this.

 

Hermione whispers, as Ron kisses her neck, and Harry slides her pants past her ankles, she murmurs aloud: “ _You are my person Harry, Ron, you are my person, you are mine, you are both my person. You are mine…”_

 

Ron bites her neck softly and says, “ _I know.”_

 

Harry pulls the pants entirely off of her, and he leans in and kisses her mouth and then he says, “ _You are both my person, too.”_

 

The agony of this: the power of it.

 

Who could survive this? Who?

 

Hermione lays back and lets it happen.

 

Ron moves now, and Harry slides down with his body lying on top of her, heavy, and she feels his fingers against her in the dark, the heat of it all, and then he’s kissing her softly on the mouth at first, and then hard, and his lips crushing hers, his teeth slamming into hers clumsily (because the kisses between them are still so new and so unfamiliar, there is a turmoil quality to their kisses, she thinks), and them both breathing hard, and hands everywhere, her hands moving, encouraging him, her fingers on his neck and arms and chest and head and face and feeling it all, with her fingertips, oh how sensitive her fingertips are, and she knows now that she will never forget what all of this feels like on her fingertips. Harry’s skin is white and his chest is prickly as if he has shaved it recently, and it’s damp with his sweat, and she is reveling in that. And Ron is touching her too, his hands moving on her breasts, his mouth kissing her shoulders and chest and skin, his lips on her nipples. And Harry, then he is leaning back a bit and then his hands are sliding against her, and then his fingers gently and firmly are coming to pause on her clit, again. She freezes, not moving, and he does too, and then they meet eyes, then all of time seems to stop. And then all three of them feel it, as they all nod, agreeing, agreeing.

 

Hermione feels Ron’s hands, as she looks at Harry, and their eyes never break gaze with one another, then she pulls him toward her again and his hand slides down again and along her stomach and past her sex, oh and then his fingers are against her, and then they are inside her, and then flicking back and forth and she throws her head back and gasps, but she is trying to be quiet, and it is fucking amazing, she feels like she will die maybe, and her brain of course tries to rattle up to the forefront and kill it all, to make her body withdraw and feel sad. She feels a moment of panic, inside herself, and her heart feels like it is skipping beats, which makes her feel even more inhibited. She can’t help it: she feels overwhelmed. So she pulls away for a moment and backs up a bit, breathing heavily. And she just sits there, looking at Harry, breathing.

 

It is the exposed feeling. The intimate feeling.

 

Harry asks, softly: “ _Are you okay?”_

 

Hermione doesn’t respond at first. She just looks at his dark eyes, the desperation, the connectedness there. She reaches out and holds Ron’s hand in hers, tightly, clutching his fingers and just looking at Harry. It feels almost like steam is rising from the three of them. And it is silent, for a moment.

 

Hermione nods, yes.  _Everything is okay._

 

And Harry says: “ _Let me try again.”_

 

The flood of ecstasy when he says that, when he says he wants to give her another orgasm, when he looks into her eyes and tells her that: it is vast, enormous, irresistible, devastating. She is massacred by her reaction, it is involuntary. She moves immediately and her heart is in her throat as she rushes to him, sitting up, wrapping her hands tightly into his hair, pressing her body against his, her legs now wrapping around his waist, she is naked now, she realizes, and the men are still wearing clothes, and she doesn’t fucking care, right now, she just presses to Harry and slides her tongue on his neck and bites him just a little, there, on the throat, and she says, “ _please, please.”_

 

Harry is watching her, pulls back from her, slides his shirt over his head, leans in to kiss her again, and then stands to take off his pants, and she just watches, and then she reaches back to kiss Ron and she says, “ _you too, you too.”_

 

Ron nods and stands and takes off his shirt first, and Hermione closes her eyes in bliss, and then she feels herself being scooped, being carried, and she opens her eyes and sees Ron, lifting her off the couch, as she wriggles a bit, and he says, “ _let’s go to the bed, then.”_

 

She is concentrating so intensely on Ron’s face that she barely realizes that Harry is walking with them both, and the dark bedroom is welcoming, and Ron lays her on the bed on her back, she’s completely naked and not the slightest bit self-conscious, and Ron lies next to her on the left, and Harry climbs over them both and lies on her right side.

 

And the tangle of arms and lips and tongues and breathing, and this time, the crush of passion rises up inside her like a wave, it rocks her backward and she feels as if she is drowning, and she starts to laugh, as she always does, as she always has done when she is about to come, and she gasps and laughs and can’t stop. Her head is thrown back, her hair plastered down the side of her neck, both of their lips on her skin and how Ron is sucking her earlobe until her earring is loose and nearly falling out, and how then her hand inside Ron’s shorts makes him so hard, so hard, the feel of him in her hands. And she reaches with her other hand and slides past Harry’s stomach and into his boxers and feels him, for the first time, with her hand, with her fingertips against his cock, which is incredibly hard. And how she feels Harry’s mouth against her neck, and how his voice against her throat whispers, " _oh please you're so wet I know you want it please please_ " and she opens her eyes again and sees Ron and Harry looking at each other, meeting eyes over top of her, and she sees their agreement again.

 

She is writhing, and Harry rolls and kisses her neck and then he looks into her eyes, the green of them, the feel of his so-soft skin under her hands, the hair on his head sliding between her fingers, and he says, soft, soft, “ _Hermione, Hermione_.” And he kisses her neck and bites her lip again and then she is twisting away from the agonizing pleasure of it all, and he says, now, “ _Hermione. Will you let me, will you let me_?”

 

Everything slides to a stop, and she looks at Harry, sees his desire, and she turns a bit to the left and sees Ron, and she asks him with her eyes, and he nods, he fucking nods, he says it is okay, Ron will allow this, and Hermione’s hips buck upward and she moans and she says, “ _yes, yes yes,_ ” and she pulls Harry’s shorts down and pulls his cock toward her, whispering a brief contraception/barrier charm as she does, her hips tossing toward him, and Ron’s soft agreement as he’s kissing her neck and Ron’s voice against her throat, saying it’s okay, it’s okay, yes, it’s okay, and the skin of Harry’s body against hers, and Ron’s heat, and the damp of all of them, and she crushes her mouth into Harry’s, breathing his air, feeling his tongue, biting his lips, over and over just biting his lips, as he bites hers, and she feels invincible, beautiful, aroused, powerful, alive. And Harry pauses for a moment and she wriggles a bit, her hips twisting, and she reaches with her arms and pulls him in, and then she feels the head of his cock against her, the slick hot wetness, and she cries out, “oh god oh god” as Harry, kneeling between her legs, slides himself into her, all the way, all the way, oh,  _FUCK_ , all the way, and her body thrashes and she can’t stop struggling against him because it is the best feeling, it is the most intense, it is extreme, it is concentrated passion in one smooth sliding motion, and she feels him push deep inside her, at last, at last. Finally.

 

Harry moans.

 

Ron moans too. Into her neck, into her hair. She reaches down and grasps Ron’s cock in her hand, as Harry kisses her mouth, and then Harry starts to move, move, move. God the way Harry looks at her, when he fucks her for the first time, when he feels her body against his; the way his eyes are focused and thick and almost dreaming. He lunges at her and brings her left nipple into his mouth, and she twists and crashes and nearly comes just from that, and she is washed with the feeling, the desire, the lust, and a tiny part of her brain is shouting, “oh god what is HAPPENING,” but she pushes that to the side and pulls Harry into her body and wraps her legs around his hips and pushes her fingers through his hair and bites his lips and it is just happening, happening. It is all becoming a perfect storm. When she loves so much, and is so much confused, and it all presses together into a mess, a beautiful collapsing black hole, sucking everything in, and the joy of that, the hate of that, the misery of that, the aloneness of that, the connectedness of that, the intimacy, the love, the lust, the brokenness, the togetherness, the ohmygod, the oh my god. She loves so much, in this moment, that she just may die of it.

Harry is fucking her.

 

 

And her mind pulls back from this, and ponders, considers, contemplates. Harry. Harry is fucking her. He’s fucking her. Right now. He is sliding in and out of her, his eyes low and dark, his hands on either side of her, his face rigorously trying to contain himself, she sees it, and it is all so slow, so fast, so slow. She condenses into a small moment, ignoring her body’s closeness to orgasm, and she lets Harry fuck her, lets him fuck her hard, and she crushes back her own climax with effort, because she can see in his eyes that if she came right now, he would come too, immediately; and she doesn’t want that, doesn’t want that, not yet, not yet anyway.

His warm body against hers, the sliding of him inside her, and she is so wet, and he is murmuring things to her, barely words really, “ _Hermione, you’re so hot, god I love you, I love you both, I love you Ron, I love you Hermione, I love, love, love.”_

 

Ron is watching all of this, and Hermione is still grasping his cock in her hand and sliding her fist over him, surprised at how utterly hard he is right now, so hard, and she realizes that both of them are incredibly hard, and she feels so powerful to have made both of her men this aroused. Her hair is sweaty against her neck, and she feels herself growing closer to orgasm, but she clenches it back again, diluting it, reducing it. She is focused on the two of them, right now. The feeling is too intense, it is too much.

 

So she pushes Harry back, with one hand, now. He stops, groaning, and she pulls away and he slides out of her. She sits up a bit, looking at him, and she says to the room, to them both:

 

“ _…let’s make this last. Is that okay?”_

 

The men both say, softly, simultaneously: “ _yes.”_

 

The room pauses again. The air thickens with their combined lust and sweat and anguished desire. But, Hermione knows, and she thinks to herself:

 

_We have time._

 

\--

To Be Continued


	3. untimely dreams where I knew.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

 

### I wasn't thinking about you, again.

by Argenterie.

Chapter 3. untimely dreams where I knew.

 

\--

 

The three of them are on the bed, together.

 

Hermione feels her heart beating and her body throbbing with chaos. The pulse of her heart inside of her – it is bewildering, the strength of it. She presses her right fingers, subtly, to the wrist of her left arm, just checking the rate, just making sure she is okay, that things are okay. She feels the thrumming beneath her fingertips, and the back of her mind starts to count, feeling, listening, counting. And after ten seconds she is comforted by her calculation, that she is not dying after all, that her heart is still alive, not lessened, not destroyed.

 

After taking her own pulse, she sits forward a bit, and she watches the chests of the two men, both heaving, both breathing so hard, and she feels her own calm settle down overtop of her. _It is something,_ she thinks. _It is something. It is … amazing._

 

She wants them both. She wants it all.

 

Watching them both, moving her eyes back and forth between them. She is ablaze with it. Feeling her center, as it throbs with lust and desire and incredible confused intimacy. It is a sense that her whole body has turned to fire, an emerald flame consuming her.

 

She lays back, propped up on her elbows, her legs still spread at first. A moment of feeling over-exposed: though she knows, both of the men have just agreed to keep this going, despite that, she feels suddenly too naked.

 

She sits up more, closing her thighs.

 

She thinks: how interesting that fear and excitement are the same, the actual same feeling, in the body. Her anticipatory sensory experience. Both positive and negative, at once. It is the heart beating fast, the body flushed, the sweat beading up, her breathing faster and faster – and she thinks, _how strange, how curious: that exhilaration and terror both feel the exact same way, in the skin, in the flesh, and the only difference is that one part of me wants to run, and the other part wants to lay back down and let it all happen. Let it happen._

 

She looks at Ron. His face is so familiar, and yet, in this moment, tonight, in the moondusk … she can’t read him. So she turns and she looks at Harry. Harry’s eyes are burning hers, his hands still running over her legs, and he’s naked, so she can see his cock, still incredibly hard, standing out from his body. She suddenly is washed with the knowledge that it was her wetness, her softness, her gasping in his ear – it was her, her – her, that made him that hard. And knowing that: it pulses in her, pounding.

 

She takes the action moment, this time.

 

She will be the one who guides.

 

She pushes Harry back, whispering, “ _move, move,”_ and she then pulls him down to the bed again, but now he’s beside her, and he slides down next to her, on his back. She kneels. Harry’s lying flat on his back on the bed, on her right, and she’s kneeling beside him, her hands running over his chest and his hair and down his thighs. The hair of his skin running through her fingertips is something she can never set aside, something perfect and intimate, and she will never forget what that feels like under her fingers.

 

His cock is gleaming with her wetness still, and she sees it as it is pulsing. Her voice catches, seeing that, and then she pulls him in, pulling his face to her, feeling the pressure of his clumsy lips against hers, and then she is kissing him deeply, pushing her tongue along his lips and his teeth. His moans into her mouth, these moans, they are going to kill her, she thinks.

 

Ron has sat up a bit behind her, and she reaches behind her with one hand and grasps his hipbone. She has one hand on Harry’s hair, and the other reached behind her body and touching Ron’s skin. The fascination of touching them both, at once – it is so exciting, so fucking amazing.

 

She stops kissing Harry for a moment and she looks over her shoulder at Ron and she sits back up on her heels, reaching for him, and brings his face to hers, and kisses him, licking his tongue and his neck and gasping with the intensity of all of this, and then she bends back over, and she can hear Ron’s breathing behind her, his irresistible lust for her, which has always drawn her in, which has always made her come, and she just wants Ron inside her, she just wants to feel that overcoming her.

 

She is kneeling back on her heels, and then she is kissing Harry’s stomach, feeling the fuzz of his skin tickling her lips.

 

Ron is behind her, kneeling too, and she now feels his hands, wrapping around her waist, holding her hips in his hands. It is so firm, the touch of his fingers on her.

 

She sits back on her heels for a moment, and is now shocked by herself, so surprised by her words: “ _Ron, Ron. I want you inside me too. Ron, fuck me, fuck me while I do this,_ ” and she bends down and licks the tip of Harry’s cock just once, gently, and feels Harry’s hips buck toward her, his head is thrown back, his eyes closed, and she can hear Ron breathing so hard as he pulls her hips toward him and she hears it as he slides off his shorts, and she looks back for a moment at Ron as he kisses her back, licking her skin, and now she bends over further so he can see, and oh god, oh _FUCK_ , all at once, the vastness of her pleasure is engulfing her, and so she is exploding with ecstasy as Ron first presses his tip against her opening, and she cries out, “ _yes, yes,”_ and she senses as Ron only hesitates a moment before finally sliding his cock deep inside of her.

 

At this exact moment, she pulls Harry’s dick into her mouth, all the way, in one smooth delicious movement, and she is squirming against them both, as Ron fills her up. _Ron’s dick is bigger_ , she thinks absently, but it honestly doesn’t matter, and her body is twisting and her mouth is now wrapped around Harry, and Harry has his hands completely twisted in her hair and then on her neck, and she is sucking him, pulling, licking, with her right hand bracing herself up, and her left hand firm around the base of Harry’s dick, and she feels Ron pushing into her from behind, his hardness slick inside her, moving, and Harry is so hard in her mouth, and she is moving too, pushing back and forth between them both. She is alive, alive, fucking ALIVE. And it is ecstasy that is both tremendous and devastating, to feel them both inside her at once, to feel her two men inside her, at once.

 

She is moving against them both, moaning, gasping; and now she hears them, hears them both, in this silent bedroom, as she fucks them both: She hears them both, right now, as they both slide into her, in and out of her, both of her men, her two most important people; her two best friends in the world, both of them, thrusting into her, oh, thrusting.

 

She can hear them, now, and she is subsumed with the feeling of it all, as she listens, and she hears.

 

Ron and Harry, both fucking her, are both just saying her name, aloud, both of them, calling out to her, “ _Hermione. Hermione.”_

 

 

 


End file.
